


And Thus Comes the Whisper, the Gesture to Her Cheek

by prgs



Series: Tales of the Dragon Age, 4E [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Gen, The Dalish - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 03:20:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10585362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prgs/pseuds/prgs
Summary: "He pauses, for a moment, to stare: to take in this little girl who healed his wounds with disgust and fear and sorrow."





	

A nine year old Dalish girl walks barefoot through the wet grass of unkempt land. A thick fog has settled itself low amongst the cedars of the forest; the morning sky still grey and chilled.

“Elfroot,” she notices, pointing at the green plant with her toe, mentally taking note of its position and fruition. "Royal."

She glances around, eager, for more: perhaps a rare morning lark or an ancient stone. Alas, the world seems silent and empty; as if the morning melancholy kept its inhabitants in warm, silent slumber until its passing. Still, the girl Nissa wanders, humming to herself as she walks, until she finds a suitable spot for childish reflection. She sits upon a bed of moss beneath the tall old tree she knows well, looking up and imagining the eyes of the Creators watching her from the branches far, far above. She smiles, whispering meaningless, cryptic words to the invisible spectators, taking the role of the women in the tales: proud, old things demanding the aid of spirits. She plays her part admirably, fetching some gnarled wood and pacing, hunched, around the tree, portraying an annoyed desperation.

“Come, come ye ancients, and aid me,” she growls to the damp air, her voice no more than a whisper. “Behold my-”

At this, a branch snaps, and the solitude of her quiet world is intruded upon. She drops her stick and swings round, heart racing, to investigate the source. It is a _man_ , of all things! She watches, frozen in place, as the shemlen moves out from beyond a tree and comes to view. He has not seen her, yet, but _he_ is ghastly to behold; something had wounded him, and he clutches his gut as he hobbles forward, blood soaking his dirty leather jerkin, his look pale and sickly. She can hear his shaky breath now, and his feverish, worried murmuring.

The man looks up from the ground beneath him and his eyes lock with hers.

“ _Fuck!_ By the-”

The man stops and glances anxiously behind him, then back at her, unmoving. Terrified, it would seem, of the elven child before him.

“What scares you so?” she asks, giving him a wary glance.

His brown, mousy hair is thinning and his look is worn. She wrinkles her nose at the stench of him: wine and sweat.

“Maker, there's. . . there's-”

The man falls to his knees before he can finish, clutching his wound. Nissa is at his side quickly, all her hesitance forgotten.

“You're hurt,” she says, prone to stating the obvious despite her Keeper's dissuasion.

“I. . . yes, help me, Maker, I'm dying, oh Maker, I'm _dying._ ”

Kneeling down beside him, she gingerly touches the man's stomach, eyeing the dark, wet lesion. “Have you lost much blood?”

“Shit, I don't know, I _think_ so-” his voice is quick and shaky as he flinches away from her touch. “Walt lost less and he's dead, oh Andraste, _he's_ dead-”

Immediately, she's conjuring up a spell in her palm; focusing, as the Keeper had taught her, on the dancing, ungoverned energy in the air around and within her, sucking in her breath and watching the pale yellow energy grow and convulse around her fingers. Satisfied, she directs it to his stomach.

He scrambles frantically backwards when he realizes what she's doing, what she _is_ , but does not get far before the deep, satisfying pulsations of warm magic begin to mend the hole in his gut.

“No, stop- Andraste's tits, you're a _mage!”_

He pauses, for a moment, to stare: to take in this little girl who healed his wounds with disgust and fear and sorrow.

“So?” asks the girl with mild, genuine confusion, her big, pale eyes staring into his. The man holds her gaze: afraid of her, yes, but more afraid of dying.

“An apostate,” he finally replies, whimpering, like the child beside him _should_ be, but _by the Maker_ he can't stop himself from crying; he knows they're not gone; he's only slowed them, but can't admit it, won't say, because maybe _now_ there's a chance, some hope of living, and he can't die- he _won't_ die; and so he stands, unsteadily, and begins to hobble away.

“Wait, shem,” she says, running forwards and grabbing his hand with a childish, gentle urgency.

“Get _off_ me!”

He fervently tears his hand from her grip and knocks her back, sweat dripping down his clammy, sallow skin. The girl tumbles to the ground, looking at him, astonished, as he limps off, clutching the blood that has finally, finally slowed.

“Little fucking elf. . . little. . .”

The man does not make it far before he falls to his knees. _Maker, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't do this, I can't-_

And then he hears it. They're _here_ , he knows, and the damned little elf girl screams behind him, tries to run, and he's sobbing now, _crawling,_ because she is dying for him and so _he_ must live, and he looks back despite himself and sees it already on upon her. _Forgive me, Andraste, forgive me; she's still screaming._ He can't see for all his tears, for all his damned pain, but still he attempts forward, and suddenly the world illuminates itself and his hair stands on edge and his breath is taken from him and the gurgles of the genlock are finally, finally gone; yet the crying, the damnable girlish whimpering, remains. He pauses, for a moment, to look over his shoulder once again and sees the little elven mage girl has burnt the creature to death with her spells _,_ the corpse charred and unmoving but _she, by the Maker, she_ seems worse; her face little more than blood and big, teary elven eyes.

Still on her knees, the little girl looks over to him, betrayed, and then horrified, and he does not have time to turn around before he is dead, a sword through his throat, with red tendrils leaking from his lips before he reaches the ground.

Another genlock stands, chest heaving, behind the dead man; its gaze is frantic and now on Nissa. Her world, so suddenly, is consumed by blood and pain and fear, and though she is weeping, she will not so easily surrender. She is clutching her slashed, throbbing face in one hand, warm blood leaking through her little pale fingers, and summoning electricity in another. Sobbing, she directs it to the dark beast, and by Mythal's mercy it _hits_ , sending the creature to its knees, though she knows it's not yet dead. She stands numb for a moment, watching it convulse and twitch, too tired to move, exhaustion and pain eating at her will with urgency, but she knows she must finish it, and so, skinny little legs tripping over themselves, she picks up the man's sword. It's as tall as her, and she struggles to hold it, but determined in her purpose she moves toward the beast -its focus now returning, its look intense- and swings the blade with all her might. It catches in the sickly, hard flesh of its head and she can't pull it out, and so she drops it, but _still_ it yet lives. The thing leaks dark blood and crawls forward, slowly, unrelenting, but near its end. Nissa takes a step back and mourns the look in the creature's eyes -a corruption she had not yet seen in her short life- and then her blurry gaze falls upon the dead human, his crumpled frame small and defeated.

And so the elven child learns such hatred exists beyond tales. The ancient tree, the hazy fog, the richness of cedars upon cedars, all gone to her for a moment. Beauty relents to the desperate grasp of terror and the world exists in greyscale.

For a moment, she wants nothing more than to hold the man's hand and to close his scared, sad eyes: _find peace, shemlen; sweet, sweet, peace._

She turns her gaze away.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Inquisitor Lavellan backstory that takes place during the fifth Blight, two years following the loss of her parents.  
> Hopefully it's obvious that the repetition when I shift into the man's POV is intentional! I couldn't tell if it read like bad writing or the urgency I was aiming for. Either way, it's practice.


End file.
